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John Edward Smallshaw
Poems
Jan 2019
Crax in the ceiling
Nobody's sure anymore about what we felt sure of before we weren't sure and I am not sure anyway.
But
we built our houses from straw
spit and sawdusted the floor
what were we waiting for?
absolution?
absolutely?
well
Pan played the pipes like a flute
he
was a ram of a man,
are you sure of me now?
Written by
John Edward Smallshaw
68/Here and now
(68/Here and now)
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